Silently Earned
by Hekate1308
Summary: They were never going to learn. Sherlock, John and Dimmock at a crime scene. Post 3x01.


**Author's note: A reviewer asked for another Dimmock story, and I thought why not. It's wonderful that I now have people feeding my obsession with minor characters – I'm not alone, it would seem. Thank you.**

**This is for prompt 10, "The Competitive Spirit". **

**This takes place after 3x01, but there aren't any real spoilers in this. **

**I don't own anything, please review. **

They were never going to learn.

The irony that the youngest DI of Scotland Yard was thinking like a well-served officer shortly before his retirement didn't escape him, but frankly, he didn't care.

Not when the day had started the way it had.

Sherlock, fresh from the dead, had strolled into the crime scene, John Watson at his heels, as he should be, and looked him up and down like the last two years had been nothing but a dream.

Of course he had known Sherlock had returned. Everyone knew. The media had been full of the consulting detective over the last few days, and in fact he had considered calling him when he had seen the clues at the crime scene – strange symbols smeared on the walls in blood – but then had thought better of it because he certainly had something better to do than solve his cases.

Apparently not.

"Greg called" Sherlock stated, kneeling down beside the body, "told me you had something that might interest me".

He had just called Lestrade by his first name.

As if he wasn't surprised enough already.

"DI Dimmock".

He turned around and nodded at John Watson, smiling. The doctor looked better than the last time he had seen him, walking out of the Yard after having given his evidence on Sherlock's suicide.

That was only to be expected, and yet he was glad.

Just like he was glad that Sherlock wasn't dead.

They hadn't been friends, they had barely been colleagues – apart from a few phone calls in which he had been told that his case wasn't worth leaving the flat for and in the next breath been told who the murderer was and why, they hadn't had any contact since "The Blind Banker" as John had dubbed their case (he hadn't read the blog entry because he wanted to see if he was mentioned. He'd simply wanted to check the facts).

But that didn't seem to matter when it came to Sherlock being alive, just as it hadn't seemed to matter when Sherlock was dead.

He had grieved anyway.

Grieved for a man he had barely known; grieved for a man who had not even been civil to him during the brief moments they had spent working together.

He still didn't know why he'd gone to his funeral. He didn't know why he had stood there, simply nodding when he had met John Watson's eyes, head respectfully bowed as the casket was layered into the ground.

He didn't know either how the Chief Superintendent had found out, but found out he must have; he had given him the cold shoulder for two years after all.

Something he found he couldn't be sorry for, not when Sherlock was alive.

He couldn't say why, but the World was definitely a better place with the consulting detective around.

He bit his lip, wondering if he should say something. He had never spoken out for Sherlock Holmes, as Lestrade had; he hadn't insisted he had to be alive, like Anderson had; the only way he had shown that he believed in him was through silence, and he didn't think that was showing anyone at all.

Sherlock knew. Sherlock must know. Sherlock had always known everything there was to know.

But here he was.

Then again, when had Sherlock ever turned down a case?

Before he had died. Before, he had impatiently declared his cases to be boring.

"When was the body found – ?"

Sherlock's voice brought him out of his musings, and he looked into the eyes of the consulting detective. He heard the question at the end – the other, unspoken question – and swallowed without having any reason to. Without having any right to.

"Dimmock."

Sherlock huffed impatiently.

"I was capable of memorizing your last name on the day we met, Inspector".

He blinked, slowly, trying to understand that Sherlock wanted to hear his first name. That the man who had never addressed Lestrade as anything different – but just before –

"Andrew" he found himself saying, and Sherlock nodded.

"When was the body found, Andrew?"

There was a tinge of impatience in his voice because the DI hadn't answered his question yet and needed time to process such a simple one, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Sherlock Holmes had just asked for his first name.

"Two hours ago. We couldn't get here earlier, there was a lot of traffic – "

He realized he was babbling and stopped talking, waiting for the inevitable rebuff, but Sherlock only muttered to himself and he turned around to look at John Watson, finding him watching his friend with a smile on his face.

Sherlock Holmes had changed.

In some ways, he was still the same annoying sod. He had walked into his crime scene without being invited and supposed that Lestrade's name would be enough for a man who, like the rest of the World, had thought him dead until a few days ago.

And he'd known it would work, too.

But he had asked for his first name, and he was polite, or as polite as Sherlock Holmes was ever going to get.

Which was why it was incredibly unlucky that a new PC – Edmunds, Andrew remembered – was at the crime scene, determined to show that he could be better than Sherlock Holmes.

"The symbols could be of Japanese or Chinese origin; there is something distinctly Asian about their appearance. Of course the door has not been forced, which suggests the victim knew his killer. This was a violent crime, most likely a lot of passion was involved; I'd say there's a woman in there, somewhere."

He stood in front of the kneeling detective and looked down at him condescendingly, and Andrew wondered if that was what he'd seemed like to Sherlock when they had first met.

He could have said something – in fact, for the first time, he was going to say something, he was still the superior officer here – but somehow he had become hyperaware of Sherlock since he'd strolled in the house and so he saw the almost imperceptible wave that the consulting detective sent his way.

He looked at John Watson, who was trying to hide his grin and obviously expecting something amusing to come out of this scene.

Andrew decided that he might as well watch too. God knew they'd spent long enough without Sherlock Holmes at crime scenes.

Sherlock didn't react like he would have before – he didn't call Edmunds an idiot immediately and send him out of the room – but slowly stood up and looked him up and down, deducing him.

At this point Edmunds really should have realized that people hadn't exaggerated when it came to his skills – he seemed to be x-raying him with his eyes – but he didn't.

He sighed.

"So, Mr. Holmes, is there anything you'd like to add?"

"Aside from the fact that your theories are wrong except for one small detail?"

Sherlock turned around to look at the DI.

"Who's on forensics?"

"Trudgings".

"He overlooked a drop of blood in the corner" Sherlock huffed. "This is the third crime scene in two days where something like this happened. I might actually consider asking Philipp to return."

"Philipp?" he inquired. Andrew didn't think he'd heard the name before, but there were a lot of forensic techs.

"Anderson" John explained, and Andrew nodded because he didn't need any more information. It was well-known that the man had quit his job (or made to go, the rumours didn't agree on this point) to prove that Sherlock Holmes was still alive.

At the time, he'd pitied him for losing his livelihood for a fantasy (albeit he hadn't been able to suppress a tiny part of him that was satisfied, not that he had had any right to feel this way, Sherlock hadn't been his friend).

Apparently Sherlock had been in contact with him since he'd returned. Andrew was surprised that he wasn't more surprised.

Edmunds cleared his throat and Andrew sighed audibly. He couldn't help it.

But he had to admit that the PC's face, Sherlock's amused glance and John's snort were hilarious.

"If anyone is actually interested in solving the case – "

"Since you won't stop talking, I will tell you that the victim knew his attacker, but that it was the colleague in whose stead he had recently been promoted, and that the symbols are just an attempt to distract from the motive. Just like the "passion" you detected. Which, I can inform you, even if it had had anything to do with the case, would not have sprung from a woman."

He turned back to Andrew as Edmunds stared at him, his mouth hanging open.

He finally managed to say, "How – "

Sherlock sighed. "Certain magazines in the closet, the symbols don't mean anything, he was spending money he didn't have yet, but seems to have been a man of meticulous habits, therefore he expected the money, recently promoted, easy, he hasn't been with anyone in the past six months, so no jealousy, and he is quite young for a promotion. There's usually an older colleague who feels mistreated.

And you, if you would excuse us, Edmunds, we want to catch the killer. If you would kindly step aside."

In his surprise, the PC did just that, and Sherlock swept past him, Andrew and John following as quickly as they could.

Half an hour later, the murderer had confessed and they were at Scotland Yard, finishing the case. Sherlock had just gone to look at another file – declining John's offer to accompany him because "It looks like a remarkable easy case, I'll be back in ten minutes" – and Andrew found himself alone with a man he'd never really talked to, and certainly not when it mattered.

After he'd offered him coffee, which he had gladly accepted, he didn't know what to say.

He looked out the window.

If John hadn't decided to speak, they might not have exchanged a word until Sherlock reappeared.

"It's a gesture of respect, you know".

He looked at the doctor, confused.

"Sorry?"

"He never remembered people's first names. He didn't even know Greg's when I met him. Now – he asks people he thinks deserve it for exactly that."

"But I don't" were the first words to come out of Andrew's mouth.

"You came to his funeral." John smiled weakly. The memory still hurt him.

"Yes, I did. But I never – I never said anything".

John shrugged. "Why should you have?"

"I knew the truth."

"Not all of it". John sounded amused now, and Andrew laughed.

"I'm glad I didn't".

Not knowing that Sherlock had been alive this whole time was certainly better than knowing he was dead.

"But still – I didn't defend him, I never – "

"He didn't expect you too. He didn't mind. And you never said a word against him, either."

"Why should I have?"

John's face darkened, and Andrew knew who he thought of.

"I hear Gregson isn't the Chief Superintendent's favourite anymore, not since it was proven that Sherlock was right about the cases."

John smiled before schooling his features into somewhat mocking pity, and Andrew almost laughed again.

It was in this moment that Sherlock walked into the office.

"Easy. It was the brother. Come on, John".

Before they left, Sherlock turned around once more.

"Andrew".

"Sherlock".

When they were gone, Andrew kept thinking about what John had said.

_A gesture of respect._

If he could get that from Sherlock Holmes, he didn't care about people like Edmunds or the Chief Superintendent, who was angry that he'd been wrong.

All he cared about was that, somehow, he had landed exactly where he wanted to be.

**Author's note: I wanted to give him a first name, and it just seemed to fit.**

**I hope you liked it, please review.**


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